


In the Shadowlands

by Anais (phoebesmum)



Category: Battlestar Galactica (1978)
Genre: Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-24
Updated: 2009-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 16:25:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/Anais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-episode <i>War of the Gods</i>. In a place between life and death, Apollo learns something of the true meaning of his sacrifice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Shadowlands

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in _Saga of a Star World #2_, published by The Thirteenth Tribe, UK, June 1984.

"Death to her, Apollo! And may her soul curse you through eternity!"

Apollo heard the words and saw Iblis's – Diaboles's – hand stretched out to strike. Without pausing to think, he leaped forward to throw Sheba aside as a bolt of pure energy flower toward her from Diaboles's fingertips …

… and was himself struck down in her stead.

There was no pain, and he thought for a micron that somehow, by some miracle, the bolt must have missed him. Involuntarily his hand moved to touch the place where it should have struck – and found nothing; no substance.

A long way away he could just hear Starbuck calling – almost, screaming – his name.

"Starbuck, I'm here," he said, suddenly frightened. His voice made no sound.

"Starbuck!" he said again. "Sheba!" And thought he heard someone laugh.

It was hard to see; it was as though there were a veil of darkness drawn across his eyes, dimming his vision. He blinked, trying to clear the mists, and stepped closer to Starbuck, saying his friend's name again. Starbuck glanced up as though hearing him – but his eyes looked straight through him.

And, again, someone laughed.

Apollo whirled, thinking the sound to have come from behind him, from the area of the crashed starship – some new enemy to fear, perhaps, some ally of Diaboles? – and then he froze.

The planet had been deserted, or so it had seemed to the living. But now, where microns earlier there had been only the twisted wreckage of the ship that had carried Diaboles to this world, there was gathered alone or in small groups of twos and threes, a throng of – beings; not people, exactly, for they were not entirely humanoid, but enough like to be obviously recognisable as a sentient, intelligent race. It was easy to guess that these were the _people_ to whom Diaboles had referred when the _Galactica_ had first found him: his disciples. They, unlike Starbuck and Sheba, were clear to Apollo's eyes, and he could see that, although their wounds did not bleed, their bodies were shattered, imploded, consumed by the evil that had been harboured within them. This, then, was the fulfilment of all of Diaboles's promises. In return for his mastery over this race he had lied to them, beguiled and seduced them, led them further and further away from any hope of redemption and then, when retribution had come at last, he had betrayed and deserted them, leaving their bodies defenceless in the face of death, their souls to wander lost, guideless, through the lonely, barren vales of perdition.

Was that what this place was? This place where silence and shadow held sway?

As a child, Apollo had believed unquestioningly, implicitly, in the Garden of Paradise described in the Book of the Word: a place where the weary would find rest, where sorrow would have its surcease, a haven for the troubled spirit, untainted by any shadow of grief. Maturity had blurred that childish vision. In a world where it was all too easy to give way to despair, he had come to believe that all those myths of an afterlife where all wrongs would finally and forever be righted were just that – myths, the wishful fantasies of a people who, with no hope for the present, could only look to a better future in the life that was to come. Then he had met Serina with her simple, steadfast faith in something greater than the material world, and the strength of her convictions had broken through the barrier of his pragmatism. Her death had almost brought him back to the faith of his childhood. A spirit like hers just couldn't end. They'd be together forever, for all the eternities – wouldn't they?

Nothing had prepared him for this: this bleak, empty wasteland inhabited only by shadows.

Desperately reaching out, he once more spoke Starbuck's name, and once again, Starbuck ignored him. The warrior had been kneeling on the ground, but now he was standing, his laser drawn, and was speaking, shouting, hysterical, although his voice was strangely muffled to Apollo's ears.

"You! You _killed_ him!" And he fired.

In the emptiness of the shadowlands, the laser blast was painfully, dazzlingly bright. Apollo flung up a hand to shield his eyes and then followed the blast's direction. Diaboles still stood as he had when Apollo himself had fired on him, that same triumphant, mocking smile playing about his lips. His true form was clear now to Apollo's eyes. How could they ever have been fooled? How could they ever have believed this, this creature reborn from the darkest nightmare memories of their race, to have been a man?

As though he heard Apollo's thoughts, Diaboles's gaze turned toward the captain, and the smile that twisted the inhuman features widened, became exultant.

_Because I willed it so_, he said. Apollo heard the words within his mind; the Prince of Darkness had not spoken aloud.

_You cannot command me!_ he said again, as he had said before – before Diaboles had killed him. _You have no power over me! You cannot command a soul that does not offer itself up to you willingly!_

Again, Diaboles smiled. _Your soul_, he said, musingly, regretfully. _No. Your soul is, alas, your own. But your body, Apollo … your body is mine._ And then he turned his eyes to Sheba. _And she – she is mine, body and soul. Your death was for nothing, Captain. Know this, and despair._

_No!_ Apollo tried to shout, but found himself voiceless, unheard, as Diaboles reached out his hand once more toward Sheba.

"Sheba. Come."

"No," Sheba whispered.

"Sheba – you _want_ to come."

_Sheba_, Apollo said helplessly, and moved to kneel beside her, trying to put his hands on her shoulders. He couldn't touch her. She was crying, tears flooding unheeded and uncontrollable down her face, but she glared up at the creature that even now, to her eyes, kept the semblance of Iblis, defying him.

"No! I could never follow you again!" Then her control broke completely at last and she seemed to collapse inwardly, huddling over the form that lay motionless, cradled in her lap. "Oh, Apollo – what have I done?"

Defeated, Apollo let his hands fall away from her. One touched the dead hand that Sheba clutched so tightly. He glanced down, startled by the unexpected sensation of touch, and found himself looking into his own face.

Had he not known better he would have thought himself to be asleep; in death his expression was quiet, composed, peaceful, as though his spirit were at rest in the lands beyond, reunited with all those who had gone before. With Serina.

Then why – for what unforgivable sin – was he still here?

_You didn't do it, Sheba_, he tried to tell her, to give her what comfort he could. _He did it_. Diaboles had hated him from the moment they had first met, recognising in him an adversary who could never be corrupted or led astray to follow his dark path. This end would have been inevitable even had Sheba not succumbed to the so-called Count's lying promises. _It wasn't your fault_, he said again, and heard his silent words echoed aloud in Starbuck's voice.

Then Diaboles turned a startled face toward the skies as the lights that had pursued the fleet for so long – that had pursued Diaboles himself since the beginning of time, and that would continue to pursue him until time's ending – suddenly reappeared as if from nowhere, passing again and again overhead, the intensity of their noise and brightness almost intolerable.

"It's time for me to leave," he said. Then he smiled at Sheba one last time. "There will come another time," he promised her. "Another place – where we will meet again." And he was gone.

Apollo looked back over his shoulder, expecting Diaboles's followers to be gone with their master, but they remained exactly as they had been – silent, unmoving, unseeing, seemingly unaware even of their own existence, let alone the intrusion into their sphere of other beings.

"They have no other place now than this," said a new voice, close by. Apollo turned again and gazed in astonishment at the tall, white-robed, human-seeming figure beside him.

"Who are you?" he asked, too bewildered by this new being's sudden manifestation to be surprised to find that he had a voice,

The being smiled slightly and shrugged. "Is it important?"

"Are you - ?" The question wouldn't form itself. He was, he realised, afraid of the answer. But the being understood.

"One of Diaboles's kind? In a way – yes. In other ways, and more importantly, no. But Diaboles is not my major concern, Apollo. You are." It – he? – looked pensive a moment and then added, "If giving me a name would make you feel more at ease, then you may call me Ralph."

"Me?" Apollo echoed, confused. "But I'm – "

"Dead?" The being – Ralph – smiled again. "Are you?"

Apollo looked to where Starbuck now knelt beside Sheba, comforting her as she lamented over his own fallen body. Ralph's smile widened.

"Oh, yes, yes, I understand what you're thinking – but you haven't really left your body, you know, or you wouldn't be here. Can't you feel it calling to you, holding you?"

Apollo nodded dumbly. "It's as though there were a – a link … between it and me …" he said hesitantly, fumbling for the right words, for there _were_ no words for this experience: it was beyond the boundaries of anything and everything that he had ever known.

"The silver cord was not loosed," Ralph said softly, "nor the golden bowl broken." Apollo looked at him in question, not understanding, and he shook his head. "Forgive me. I was quoting a source with which you would not be familiar. Unpardonably rude of me, I know, but one forgets …" He waved a hand impatiently, dismissing the subject. "There are more important matters to which to attend. If you would come with me ?"

"Where to?" Apollo asked. The other only gave his enigmatic smile again.

"You'll see."

Apollo would have refused, distrustful, painfully aware of how vulnerable a position he was in, drifting in this limbo, neither alive nor yet fully dead – easy prey, surely, for one of Diaboles's malevolent disciples – but as he wavered, he began to feel a sudden strange new sensation, a tugging at his heartstrings, an insistent inward urging that he could not ignore. Starbuck had risen to his feet, lifting, with a little effort, his friend's body in his arms, and was now moving slowly in the direction of the _Galactica'_s shuttle. Apollo found that he could maintain only a certain distance from that other self; after Apollo had gone about a metron, he was inexorably drawn after. He looked to the being – to Ralph, he reminded himself again – forgetting his doubts for a micron and automatically seeking reassurance from one more powerful than himself, and Ralph nodded.

"Go," he told the warrior. "All will be well – in time."

Apollo tried to smile. "Time is all I have."

This time Ralph didn't smile back. "We may have less than you think. Now, go!"

And then, for the first time, one of Diaboles's followers looked up and saw Ralph – although in what likeness Apollo would never know – and, with a cry, leaped up and ran to him, falling at his feet.

"Lord! Oh, Lord, we repent! Lord, use your power to free us!"

Ralph stared down at the creature, his face set, immobile; bleak, stern. But there was an infinity of sorrow in his eyes.

"I cannot," he said. The sadness was not permitted to tinge his voice. "You made your choice freely, and by that free choice you must abide."

"How long?" the other begged.

Ralph turned away. "You know that."

"How long?" Apollo asked. Ralph glanced down at him.

"Forever," he said flatly, and began to walk toward the landing area. Apollo looked at the lost soul in shock.

"_Forever?_" And then the calling of his body pulled at him again and dragged him after it. He caught up with Ralph and repeated, horrified, "Forever?"

Ralph nodded, not looking at him.

"There can be no salvation for those who follow willingly in the ways of evil," he said simply.

"But is there no mercy for those betrayed by the king of lies?" Apollo whispered, and, when only silence answered him, shut his eyes in dread comprehension. He remembered the words that Diaboles had spoken to Sheba: that death was not the end, but only the beginning. But the beginning of what?

_Forever _…

An eternity was too short a time to be with Serina. But an eternity of loneliness in this forsaken no-man's land?

As he topped the ridge beyond which the shuttle was landed, Apollo looked back one last time toward the wreck of Diaboles's ship, and saw the follower who had spoken still standing alone, gazing hopelessly after them as his last chance of salvation disappeared evermore from his sight, and heard him as he gave one last despairing cry.

Always thereafter, until the end of all his days, Apollo would hear echoing in his mind that forlorn, empty sound: a lost, damned soul crying alone and unanswered in the wilderness.

"Forever! Oh, lord, let it be a hundred years, or a thousand, or a thousand thousand, but let it not be forever!"

And there but for the grace of god, Apollo thought, went Sheba and all those others in the fleet who had so blindly, so rashly, accepted Iblis at his own face value. He stood beside Ralph on the crest of the hillside, watching the woman as she entered the shuttle, turning as she did so to help Starbuck lift the body (it was such a strange, eerie feeling to think of it as _his_ body; on an impersonal level he found the concept less unnerving) inside. He wondered whether, even now, she fully comprehended the narrowness of her escape.

"She's only human," Ralph commented, breaking into his thoughts. "Do you really want her to know? Do you think that her mind could bear that knowledge?"

"We're all only human," Apollo said briefly. Ralph laughed.

"Speak for yourself, young man!" Then he was serious again. "Apollo, do _you_ realise the full implications of your actions – the fate from which you saved her?"

Apollo looked away, trying not to hear the voice that still rang in his ears. "Yes," he said, very quietly. "Yes, I do." Then it dawned on his exactly what Ralph had just said, and he asked, "I?"

"You," Ralph said again. "Had you not willingly sacrificed your life to save her – "

"It wasn't a sacrifice!" Apollo immediately denied. "It was the only thing I could do!"

Ralph only smiled as though he knew better and went on, "Be that as it may, without that sacrifice we would have been powerless. She was Diaboles's, and her life was his to take if he so chose; we were powerless either to prevent him, or to aid her. But a being uncorrupted by his touch, a spirit free from the shadow of his evil – these were not his to take. The instant he attacked your body he overstepped his boundaries and we were able to make our reprisal for that transgression."

"You make it sound like a game of triad," Apollo said, his voice bitter, " – complete with rules and teams, and with god acting as officiator."

"In a way, that's so," Ralph agreed, unperturbed by Apollo's tone. "A great, eternal game of life or death – and the prize the highest of all."

Apollo turned on him angrily. "Games!" he said. "What gives you the right to use _us_ as your playthings, your puppets? Why should we have to fight your battles for you?"

"Is it not your battle also?" Ralph enquired mildly.

Apollo's voice lost some of its anger, but he persisted, "Whatever happened to freedom of choice?"

"Are you not free to choose?" Ralph returned. "Did not each one of you make his choice, either for Iblis or for your father?"

"Some choice!" Apollo said. "My father against – against the Lord of Hades! Where were _you?_"

Ralph smiled sardonically. "Must we fight our battles for you?" he quoted, turning Apollo's own words against him.

"Isn't that what you're there for?" Apollo demanded, and Ralph shook his head.

"No. To watch, to guide as and when we may, to intervene when we are permitted. Not to fight. There is a balance within the scheme of things, Apollo, and we cannot allow that balance to be disturbed by so much as a hair's breadth, or the result would be …" He paused, letting out his breath in a long sigh. Finally, he went on, "It would be beyond your comprehension."

"This whole thing's beyond my comprehension," the warrior commented irritably. "I don't know what's going on – who you are, where I am, what I'm doing here – "

"Do you not?" the other countered. "On the contrary, Apollo – you know a great deal. Even when you do not know, when you are uncertain what path to follow, your instincts help you to see your way clear where others of your kind would stumble. You are of great value to us, you know."

Apollo looked at him, startled. "Me? Why? Why should I be?"

"Because you understand. Because you are prepared to question and to seek out the unknown, to search for knowledge and for truth. Because you have the courage to fight for what you know to be right, even against all odds. Because you cannot be misled or corrupted or seduced. Because you are not afraid – "

Apollo almost laughed. "You're wrong on that one!" Ralph only looked at him without expression.

"Am I? You don't seem afraid."

Apollo shrugged. "I'm a warrior. We learn not to let it show."

Ralph smiled knowingly at that. "No human could be good enough an actor to deceive me," he said.

Apollo's eyes fell; he shrugged again, letting it pass. Then his vision was drawn back toward Ralph and beyond as a muffled sound as of distant thunder broke the still air.

"They're launching …" he said, unnecessarily. He watched as the shuttle lifted gracefully into the air and turned, skimming by overhead, gaining in speed and distance until it was no more than a speck against the blurred, murky line of the horizon and, at last, was finally gone. Then he looked back at Ralph. "They've gone," he said, forlorn, like an orphaned child left alone in a world of strangers. "What now?" The sensation of being drawn after that part of him that he had lost had intensified as the shuttle launched, almost to the point where it was beyond bearing, and had then abruptly died, leaving only emptiness in its wake; an emptiness like a gnawing hunger that could never be sated. "They're gone," he said again, "and a part of me with them. What happens now? Do I just stay here forever – like them?" He gestured back toward Diaboles's shattered craft. "Like them? Until I forget who I am, and turn into smoke and drift away on the breeze?"

Ralph gave him a sympathetic smile. "If that were so, would I be here with you? I told you that you were of value to us." He stretched out his hand to touch Apollo's shoulder and said, simply, "Come, now."

Apollo could not have said when or how it changed. There was not even a wavering of the greyish light of the shadowlands, not so much as a sound or a breath of wind, but suddenly he was – elsewhere; some place that was so far beyond the bounds of his merely human senses that his mind refused to accept it. Whiteness was all of which he could be certain; a brilliant, dazzling whiteness, bright as a laser burst, that should have been hurtful to the eyes yet, strangely, was not. And there were other beings there, all around him – beings unlike Ralph in appearance, but somehow also like, as though Ralph had metamorphosed from their likeness to the human-seeming form he now wore in order to lessen the strangeness; in order to make him, Apollo, less afraid.

"Are you all right?" Ralph asked solicitously, drawing back Apollo's wandering attention. The warrior started. It had to be his imagination; for a micron there, Ralph had actually sounded like …

"Like whom?" Ralph asked.

"Like my father," Apollo replied absently, forgetting that he had not spoken his half-formed thought aloud, and then glanced up at the other in startlement; but Ralph was smiling, amused.

"How very appropriate," he murmured. Then he leaned forward and studied Apollo more closely. "But you're beginning to look tired."

Apollo shook his head. "How could I be tired?" he asked reasonably. It was true, though – he did feel strange, Stranger, that is, he told himself with an inward, ironic smile, than he had felt before. But tired was not quite the right word; a little faint, perhaps, dizzy …

_Transparent, even_, he thought, as he looked down suddenly and saw with a little shock that his body which had, up until then, been to his eyes as substantial as it had been in life, was beginning to fade, to grow hazy and to waver a little around the edges – like a video image being projected slightly out of focus. He looked up at Ralph, trying to mask the panic that he knew showed in his eyes.

"What's happening?" he asked, and was relieved to hear that his voice held no betraying waver. "Diaboles ?"

"Diaboles has no power over you," Ralph said. "You know that. Even had he any such, he would be unable to harm you here, with me. This place is beyond his dominion – far, far beyond. But I warned you that we had very little time. It would appear that we have less even than I had thought."

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?" Apollo demanded, then sighed and added, "I'm sorry." He hadn't intended to shout.

"It's understandable," Ralph excused him. "And as to what it means – it means that the link is weakening. If we do not return you to your physical body very shortly, then your spirit will pass beyond out boundaries and be lost to us."

"And what then?" Apollo asked. Ralph shook his head.

"And then," he said flatly, "nothing." He turned to one of his fellows and asked, "Is all in preparation?"

The being nodded. "Equalisation is almost attained," it told him. "The humans will be able to tolerate our systems for a short time now."

"Then bring them," Ralph ordered, and turned to another. "What of your task?"

"It was no easy matter," came the reply, tinged by the slightest hint of reproach. "If we could have begun sooner – Diaboles's touch, as you must surely know, corrupts, and the decay – "

"Yes, enough!" Ralph said sharply, with a sidelong glance at Apollo, who had to swallow back a sudden rush of nausea. "The humans had to delay their launch until the woman was sufficiently in control to fly the craft, and there was nothing more that I could do to hasten matters. But you _were_ successful?"

"When have we ever failed?" the other returned. "All is prepared. We await only your contribution, and the pattern is complete."

Ralph nodded briefly, then turned, indicating to Apollo that he should accompany him. They passed through a corridor into another chamber. This one was as incomprehensible to human senses as the first, but Apollo found himself drawn forward into it, drawn irresistibly – a familiar pull, a force that tugged at the very core of his being …

He crossed the room closely and climbed the steps to the dais that rose at the far end, and then stood very still, gazing down once more into his own dead face.

"It will be very soon, now," he heard Ralph, close behind him, murmur.

Apollo hesitated, then turned his head slightly to look at the one who had brought him to this.

"Must I go back?" he whispered. "Not – is there no way to go onward? I'm so tired …"

"It's hard, I know," Ralph said gently. "But you cannot rest, Apollo, not with tasks yet undone. Yours is an important role to play in the world of the living, and nobody but you can play it." He put out his hand and touched the warrior's shoulder again. "We need you."

"Why?" Apollo asked wearily. "I still don't understand."

"No," Ralph said. "I know, and I know that it's hard for you, but some things have to be taken on trust. If you did understand, then your usefulness to us would be at an end. You _will_ come to understanding – eventually. But you must grow to that knowledge in your own time. Only have faith, Apollo. Trust me." He looked hard into the captain's eyes. "You do trust me – do you not?"

Apollo gazed back, searching the other's face, thinking of Diaboles, remembering how plausible he had seemed, how easily the people of the fleet had been beguiled and betrayed. Finally, "Yes," he said, simply. "I trust you."

Ralph nodded, apparently satisfied. "Remember that." Then he reached out to that other Apollo, the one who lay unmoving, unbreathing, upon the dais, and touched him gently, laying his hand once upon his heart and then once more upon his lips …

… and, again, the world changed.

***


End file.
